tionality and become a
Yankee; so, for the sake of living in the Queen's dominions, he went to
Canada; a place, in their estimation, only one degree more desirable as
a place of residence than Greenland or Kamtschatka.

That was five years ago. Arthur has had something of a struggle since
then. By sometimes teaching dull boys Latin, sometimes acting as
sub-editor for a daily paper, and at all times living with great
economy, he has got through his studies without running much in debt;
and has entered his profession with a fair prospect of success. He has
visited Merleville once since he went away, and his weekly letter is one
of the greatest pleasures that his father and sisters have to enjoy.

Norman and Harry have both left home, too. Mr Snow did his best to
make a farmer first of the one and then of the other, but he failed. To
college they went in spite of poverty, and having passed through
honourably, they went out into the world to shift for themselves.
Norman writes hopefully from the far West. He is an engineer, and will
be a rich man one day he confidently asserts, and his friends believe
him with a difference.

"He will make money enough," Janet says, "but as to his keeping it,
that's another matter."

Harry went to Canada with the intention of following Arthur's example
and devoting himself to the law, but changed his mind, and is now in the
merchant's counting-room; and sends home presents of wonderful shawls
and gowns to Janet and his sisters, intending to impress them with the
idea that he is very rich indeed.

Those left at home, are content now to be without the absent ones;
knowing that they are doing well their share in the world's work, and
certain that whatever comes to them in their wanderings, whether
prosperity to elate, or adversity to depress them, their first and
fondest thought is, and ever will be, of the loving and beloved ones at
home.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

The Indian-summer-time was come again. The gorgeous glory of the autumn
was gone, but so, for one day, at least, was its dreariness. There was
no "wailing wind" complaining among the bare boughs of the elms. The
very pines were silent. The yellow leaves, still lingering on the
beech-trees in the hollow, rustled, now and then, as the brown nuts
fell, one by one, on the brown leaves beneath. The frosts, sharp and
frequent, had changed the torrent of a month ago into a gentle rivulet,
whose murmur could scarce be heard